by L. L. Muir
The man stopped ten feet from where the redhead still held the nun as a shield.
“I do understand, Izzy. You couldna stand by. I must admit young Sophia is shrewd for her age. She kenned just how to win ye to her side. Whether or not she exaggerated her feelings for the boy, I canna say. He was the only young laddie available to her—”
“Ossian!” The woman shook her head, horrified by the man’s words for some reason. “Just because no man can truly love me, that doesna mean I doona ken real love when I see it, aye?”
The man sighed and gave her a pitying look, and Gaspar wondered what might make such a beauty unappealing.
“Let the nun go, Izzy.” The Scot gestured for her to come to him. “Let us be away from here and hope we’re nay tossed from Venice before we’ve tried the place.”
Again, the redhead looked at the screen, frowning.
Gaspar took a step backward into the shadows just as the Scotsman began to follow her gaze.
Suddenly, she released the nun. “Beg yer pardon,” she said sweetly, though sincerely. Then she bent forward, took hold of the bottom of her brown robe, and pulled it up and over her head before Gaspar had a chance to avoid the sight. But instead of the woman standing nude before them all, she was clothed like a man, in hose and a tunic.
While the nuns stood in shock, the man took his countrywoman’s hand, and together they ran to the near aisle and raced the abbess to the doors. Gaspar didn’t know who he hoped would win until the last locks of red hair disappeared from sight and his gut clenched. The abbess stopped at the last pew and sat, breathing furiously.
Damn, he thought, and in a church too.
Standing before the charming wee home, Isobelle’s heart beat like the hooves of a heavy horse across a thin wood bridge. The stone house was everything their living quarters in Spain had not been. This one had windows in all three rooms, and better still, sunlight shining through them. In Spain, the windows had been small, the single room dark and smelling of the parade of people who had come before. She and her cousin had been forced to leave Spain quickly, however, before she’d been able to do much about the smell. She ought to feel contrite about it all, but she did not.
Her cousin, Ossian, had done an admirable job of caring for her since they’d left Castle Ross nearly a year and a half ago. He’d promised Monty, her brother and laird of the clan, that he’d see her settled and happy somewhere. It was no fault of hers if they were still looking for a place where both those needs might be met. Ossian had all but given up ever going home again—she should regret that too--but the idea of being left behind while Ossian returned to the Highlands was unbearable.
Sadly, she had no ear for languages. Hadn’t she tried to learn Spanish? So close to French, but not close enough to make her feel as if she could remain there alone when neither the Spaniards nor Moors could understand her. If Ossian had left her there, she’d have been dead in a week if only from frustration. The men were the worst, choosing to believe Isobelle was flirting with them, making up their own interpretations to fit their moods. It was no wonder their wives were so suspicious.
And before Spain, it had been France. Before that, Denmark. She’d refused to freeze in Norway. Now she wished she would have tried harder to convince Ossian to try Ireland from the first. At least she might have been able to look out over the Irish Sea for a glimpse of home. But Ireland wasn’t far enough, he’d said. And one familiar face might mean her destruction.
But the farther they travelled, the more danger she faced from simple differences. Her cousin had jested once that in Mesopotamia, her hair could cause war.
Now, Venice might well be her last hope. And standing in front of the cheery cottage, in spite of the light and fresh breeze blowing from the lagoon nearby, she felt the weight of the moment. There was a tender balance beneath her feet and the slightest disturbance might destroy it. Her last chance. A promising chance, but still her last.
The choice was at hand. Did she want this life? If Venice was her last prospect and something went wrong, would Ossian give up trying and take her home? And if home meant death for her? Would she rather go home to die than live a half-life here?
A hundred times, she’d wondered what the difference might have been between water and spirits. If, when she’d escaped the tomb in which she was supposed to die, Ossian and Ewan had given her water to sooth her twelve-day thirst instead of heady spirits, would she have argued against leaving Scotland? Would she have taken a moment or two and decided for herself? Or could it be that she’d been fighting happiness all this time simply because leaving home had been someone else’s decision?
She thought of all the places they’d lain their heads since that choice was made. If she’d wanted to find happiness, could she have found it long ago? If she wanted it now, was it hers?
Isobelle inhaled slowly. Her chest expanded with excitement. It was time to decide, but she didn’t want to rush. She would consider first, then the choice would be hers. Not Ossian’s. Not Ewan’s. Not Montgomery’s.
Venice was a busy city with little space between houses and waterways, let alone people. Not like the Highlands. Even Edinburgh sprawled like a yawning beast compared to this place. But the people smiled. The sun shined. And perhaps the sea would give up a rain storm every now and again to help a lass feel at home. She may never see snow again…
Of course, it was still wise to keep her hair covered when possible. She hated plaits, but she could get used to them. At night, she could close up her shutters and let her hair do what it willed. Perhaps she could convince Ossian to take up farming, or raising chickens, or anything that might keep him close at hand this time.
Everywhere they’d lived, the trouble began only because Ossian found work with his sword arm. A man-at-arms was rarely at home. But he’d promised things would be different here, and there had been a surety in his voice that she hadn’t heard before. She only hoped this sunny house was the first of many differences.
As she stepped outside into the sunshine, leaving her cousin inside to negotiate with the owner, she realized her decision was already made. Life. She would choose life. And when she lifted her face to the Mediterranean sun, the warmth and glow of it sunk into her very bones.
Ossian emerged with a frown marring his handsome face, and Isobelle couldn’t stop the tears from collecting behind her eyes. The house had been so perfect. Would they be able to find another so fine as this?
Her cousin came to stand before her and toed the dirt at her feet. “The house is yours,” he muttered, then looked up and grinned. He’d only been teasing!
Isobelle jumped forward and nearly knocked him off his feet with her fierce embrace. “Oh, Ossian! I shall love it here. I know it. We’ll both love it.”
He cleared his throat and took hold of her waist, setting her back a bit. Still grinning, he shook his head. “I am glad ye think so, Izzy. But it matters not how I feel about it.”
“What do ye mean? Ye’ll have to stay at least long enough for me to learn the language, will ye not?” And they both knew she wouldn’t learn quickly.
He raised his brows. “Perhaps a husband can teach ye.”
She put a hand over his mouth and looked up and down the little street to see if anyone had overheard. They were thankfully alone for the moment.
“Wheesht!” she hissed. “All must believe ye are my husband, aye?”
He winked at her and pulled her hand from his mouth. “Nay this time, lass.”
Emerging from the house was the old woman who owned it. She sent Ossian a wink, then headed down the lane from whence she’d come.
“What do ye mean, cousin?” She tried not to grin. The reason he always played the husband was so she wouldn’t be bothered while he was away. If he was going to come home every night, he could go back to being her cousin. “Are ye done with livin’ by the sword, then? Will ye raise chickens? Please tell me ye’re not going to come home every night smellin’ like fish.”
Ossian grim
aced. “Nay, lassie. I doona plan to smell much like fish.”
“What then?” She released him and stepped back. Then she folded her arms and mustered the sternest look she could. For the first time she could remember, he returned the stare.
“Isobelle.”
A bad sign, that. He only ever called her Izzy, even when they were children, unless he was angry with her.
He took a big breath and huffed it out, then tilted his head back as if preparing to take a blow on the chin. She fisted her hands to oblige him if needed. “After the trouble at the convent, how close ye came to marryin’ God and all, I started to thinkin’.”
“Ossian,” she warned.
“Ye need to marry, and that’s plain. The men will never leave ye be until ye are.”
She shook her head. “It never matters where we are. The men never left me be when they thought ye were my husband. The lie was folly. I see that now.”
“Aye. The lie was folly. In time, men came to realize it was a lie. I told the old woman ye’re me cousin, that we’re hoping ye find a good man to marry—”
She swung with all her might, but Ossian caught her wrist. She cried out from the pain of it.
“Ye’ll marry, Isobelle.” He shook her fist until her hand relaxed. “Ye’ll marry, and I… I’ll be returnin’ home, Izzy. To Scotland. I’ve never once caused trouble. And I’m finished with coddlin’ ye. Monty himself would ask no more of me.”
She shook her head quickly. “But ye promised!”
“I promised to see ye settled.”
“And happy.”
“Weel, since I’ve already tried and failed at that, I’ll let yer husband worry about the happiness bit. Signora Crescento will see that only the kindest of men are allowed to court ye. Men who will be patient with ye while ye learn the language.”
Ignoring the pain of her breaking heart and bruised wrist, Isobelle put her hands on her hips and gave her cousin a murderous look. “I’ll not marry without love, Ossian. And the only way a man can love me is if ye sew me lips together. Ye’ve said so all our lives. Deny it if ye can.”
Her cousin closed his eyes and shook his head in denial, but it was more likely he was denying he could hear anything at all.
“We were all witness to the love between Ivar and Morna. Ye canna expect me to marry a man that canna love me completely, to be reminded every day that my life is lacking.”
“Signora Crescento will find a kind man—”
“I’ll drive a kind man to do unkind things. Ye’ve said that as well.”
Ossian snorted, but though he couldn’t deny her arguments, he didn’t appear to be relenting.
“Ye canna leave me in the old woman’s hands, Ossian. She doesna speak English or Scots!”
“I am sorry, lass. This house costs a fair piece, aye? I’m off to find work on a merchant ship. The Turks are a menace these days, and I hear tell a man with a keen sword arm can make a fine livin’; but a man with a crossbow can make four times that. Since I can wield both, I reckon I’m worth me weight in gold, eventually. I’d be given a share of the captain’s quarters as well. Does that not sound like Paradise?”
“Nay, Ossian,” she said, bowing her head. “The only thing that sounds like Paradise is Scotland.”
“Isobelle, mauvournin’. For ye, there is no Scotland. All of Clan Ross, save yer brother and Cousin Ewan, believe yer still inside that tomb. If others learn ye escaped, it will be yer head in a noose and the three of us hangin’ beside ye. Would ye wish that?”
Isobelle shook her head and walked away. With no better ideas for swaying her cousin, she headed toward the end of the street and the wall and sea beyond. She’d have to allow her sadness to ebb away before she’d set a slipper inside the sunny little house. If not, it would be no better than the tomb she’d once escaped.
A husband? A Venetian for a husband? An unloving husband of any sort was a curse to be avoided. But a husband whom she could not understand? Ridiculous.
She smiled at a little girl who looked up from her collection of shells and rocks to see who had brought a shadow to her wall. The rocks were rough but warm beneath Isobelle’s hands and she bid their peace and silence to ease her mind. And there, in the warmth of the southern sun, an idea began to sprout.
If a man wanted to marry her, he would just have to learn her language. And if she proved to be a poor teacher? Could she be blamed?
Aye, she could do worse things than live out her life alone.
The little Greek, Icarus, pushed himself away from the shadows of the little cottage and headed down the path, certain he’d not been noticed. If his master, God’s Dragon, were any other man, Icarus would suspect he was smitten with the beauty. But if the rumor was to be believed, the same sword that created the frightening scar across Gaspar Dragotti’s face had done much more frightening things to other parts of his body. So it was doubtful his master had any personal interest in the woman. More likely, he’d been ordered to investigate her and her companion—a man who was not her husband after all.
Icarus smiled as he picked his way down the road, knowing his master would be well pleased with the details he’d learned. And Icarus was pleased God’s Dragon had chosen to spend the night in the city, for it meant no rowing out to the man’s private island to fix his supper, or rowing back, as Icarus did each night.
He rolled his shoulders in anticipation of a painless evening.
Chapter Four
Gaspar sat on a simple wood bench at the rear of the gardens absently watching the Augustinian friars collecting food in their aprons. Dressed in black and sitting silently in the summer shade like the shadow of a true dragon, he made them nervous, he knew. But he preferred to sleep on hallowed ground, when not at home, and as Special Investigator to The Patriarch of Venice, he could go wherever he willed. And he willed to sit in a peaceful garden—where Satan had no reach—while he waited for Icarus to bring him news.
He had no interest in the woman. It was only the inflection in her speech he wished to understand. As a student of many languages, he was frustrated when he misunderstood someone speaking one of those languages. And English, as his native tongue, never troubled him. But Gaelic was a problem. He’d hoped to never hear it again, in truth. But he was determined to know why the woman had used that inflection when calling the man husband.
It was the only reason he’d sent Icarus to find them. He wanted his curiosity settled. It was as simple and as sinless as that.
Finished with their gathering, the friars scurried away and left Gaspar alone with his thoughts and the echo in his head of their shuffling feet. Or was it the echo of the woman’s feet as she meandered up the aisle of the church?
Was she a venefica? A witch? Had he finally happened upon one in truth?
If she were executed, she could tempt me no more.
He shook the voice from his head because it was wrong. Not only was he not tempted, it would be a sin, surely, to punish a woman for her beauty. Of course, men tried to do just that on many occasions. Husbands, jealous and suspicious, would run to the church and accuse their wives of witchcraft, to rid themselves of their own weaknesses. And it would surprise him not at all to learn that most investigators, excluding himself, would believe the men in most occasions.
Gaspar Dragotti had naught in common with those men. He had a gift. He could read the guilt on the faces of most men as if they’d opened their mouths and confessed. He always knew when a man was lying, even if the man had convinced himself otherwise.
A gate squeaked open and he turned toward the sound, hoping to see Icarus. It was only a friar, returning for a knife he’d left lying among the plants. He gave Gaspar a smile and a slight bow, then returned from whence he’d come.
Gaspar took a deep breath and settled into his thoughts.
Yes. He could tell if a man was lying, and the knowledge turned his stomach. He could tell when a man was lying, and this time, it was himself. The truth was Gaspar Dragotti was tempted by the Scotsw
oman. The vision of her hair, her face, her lips—they all haunted him each time he closed his eyes. And though he ignored the stirrings of his body in response to that vision, he could not wipe it from his memory.
Of course, he would never consider the woman for himself. He had vowed never to marry. But it would help him, somehow, to know she was the wife of another. If she was married to the Scotsman, he could stop thinking of her, let her go.
Let her go! As if he were holding onto her. With both hands. Trying not to forget her, even now.
His chest tightened and he looked skyward for relief, but found only the pale, full moon looking down from a blue sky, too anxious to be about its business to wait for the coming night.
Let her go, he told the moon.
I cannot, it seemed to reply.
“It seems,” he murmured aloud, “neither can I.”
Icarus found him just after Vespers. Gaspar did not attend with the friars, but he appreciated the stolid murmur of voices coming from the chapel washing over him like baptismal waters, replacing the sound of the Scotswoman’s lilting tongue with the steady, comforting voices of the devoted.
“My lord! I have interesting news.”
“Tell me.” With his own low tone, he warned the servant to lower his voice.
“The man is not her husband,” Icarus whispered with excitement. “He is her cousin. A warrior hoping to find work as a crossbowman. He told an old Venetian woman he plans to man a ship and leave his pretty cousin in the old woman’s keeping, to find a husband that can take her in hand, but can also make her happy. He was quite forceful about her being happy, in the end. He offered the old woman compensation if she found the right man. And more for keeping the wrong men away from her. The old one will have even more compensation if the pretty one makes trouble. Or rather, when she makes trouble. He expects it, I think.”
Gaspar was grateful the little Greek had so much to report since he was momentarily unable to speak himself. Something powerful rose inside him at the first news—the man is not her husband. He struggled to understand the rest of the details while he fought for calm. And for air.
